


if you had a twin i'd still choose you

by sharkfights (feartown)



Category: UnREAL (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 01:57:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7339915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feartown/pseuds/sharkfights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Quinn has always owned her ass, and Rachel knows it.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>spoilers for 2x03.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you had a twin i'd still choose you

**Author's Note:**

> so. quinn king huh.

The thing about Quinn King is: she likes it when you call her a monster.

Imagine her with heavy wings; imagine her holding a man’s still-beating heart in clawed hands; imagine her leaving a trail of blood in her wake – she’ll take every insult with a darkened smile and call you a dickless coward in return.

She likes it because she knows she’s not. Everyone who rules a kingdom gets called names, and Quinn does rule – more fearsomely than Chet could ever hope to with all his lumbering, coked-up masculinity. But because Quinn doesn’t apologize for every decision she’s ever made, because she enjoys making them, people assume that she must have a screaming void where her heart is supposed to be.

Quinn’s heart beats the same way everyone else’s does – with fury and fire and love; it just lives beneath the ornery surface that keeps her ship sailing on network television. Being ruthless is her job.

So names like harpy, bitch, and dragon, they’re meaningless. Things said by people who are afraid of a woman who knows how to wield power.

 

Rachel wishes she had half of Quinn’s quiet, iron resolve. The first couple of years working under Quinn Rachel spent terrified of her – while simultaneously sure she was the most beautiful, ferocious person she’d ever seen. When Quinn decided to keep Rachel as a protégé – steady under her thumb, rather than safe under a wing – Rachel was so happy she never minded when Quinn pressed a little too hard. Because Quinn at work has always been mesmerizing; Quinn nudging and hinting and straight up setting fires is, in all honesty, more satisfying than the best sex Rachel has ever had.

It’s because Quinn (unlike many men she’s slept with) knows she’s good at what she does. It’s a puzzle for her, getting these girls to bend to her whims – each one is different and Quinn loves to work out how their pieces fit together.

She’s ruthless, but Rachel also knows that she only does what she does so well because she feels so strongly. The men who work above them like to think of Quinn as a merciless robot – the person you send in when no one else can get the job done, because Quinn doesn’t have skeletons that get to her the way other people do.

Rachel is fully aware that Quinn has plenty of skeletons, she just happens to know precisely where they’re buried. When she digs them up, they go right back into their holes; earth covers them completely.

Rachel’s never mastered that particular skill, but Quinn loves the way Rachel sets her own fires anyway. Quinn is happy to be the point on the map Rachel can always find, always anchor herself to.

And Rachel knows Quinn loves her, now, and she knows Quinn loves her more than just as her manipulative puppet who knows how to get a woman undressed faster than anyone on set (even Chet). Her love isn’t loud; it’s in the slide of her hand across the back of Rachel’s shoulders that loosens the string of tension in them at two in the morning. It’s in the way she leans back against her chair and her arm is close to Rachel’s but not quite touching, just warm and strong and stalwart.

Quinn shows her love in little ways – she will always cant towards Rachel when she’s tired and less defensive, always go to bat for her with guard dog-viciousness when it counts, and for a long time Rachel clung to Quinn’s protective, hawkish love simply because she knew it would get her where she wanted to go professionally. It wasn’t like she didn’t love Quinn back, but there’s always been… something, some tiny flickering candle of a feeling Quinn has for her that Rachel has never had in the same way.

But at some point – she thinks maybe after Mary – something shifted. Not with Quinn, but with Rachel.

Rachel starts to seek out the small moments without even realizing, and before long the grip of Quinn’s fingers around her arm or the bristle of her anger (usually at Chet) as she steps out beside Rachel (usually to defend whatever scrap of honour or dignity she might have left), is giving her odd little thrills down her spine. They spread and start to take root, until Quinn’s touch isn’t just welcomed; it’s sought after, manipulated out of her. Rachel never defines it as attraction, but only because it’s Quinn – everyone, in their own way, is attracted to Quinn.

 

That is, until she finds that all those smaller moments are about to culminate in a much larger one.

 

It’s late, and Rachel’s just finished a whole new edit after the stupid computer crashed and annihilated half the sizzle reel she’d cut together. Her eyes are so dry she’s almost crying as she heads towards her truck, and she’s actually looking forward to collapsing onto the uncomfortable metal shelf she calls a bed when she sees the light still on in Quinn’s office.

While it isn’t out of the question for Quinn to still be working, or at least “entertaining” Chet – because who knows what their relationship is at this point – but they’re shooting in the morning and Quinn does usually try to go home for even a few hours.

So, curious, Rachel knocks on her door and gets a gruff _come in_ as a response.

Quinn is on the couch and looks… well, Quinn on her worst day still looks better than Rachel on her best, but she’s certainly dishevelled in a way that Rachel isn’t used to seeing.  
  
“You okay?” Rachel asks, slumping down next to her.

Quinn looks at her sideways – which is a look Rachel still doesn’t realize is reserved entirely for her – and breathes deep, fidgeting with the edge of her skirt. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Rachel says, and makes no move to leave. Not because she wants to make Quinn talk, but because Quinn has shifted just enough that her tired, three-in-the-morning perfume smell has caught in Rachel’s nose and she wants to follow it back to Quinn’s neck.

“What’s up with you?” Quinn asks. She hunts down changes in Rachel’s demeanor like a bloodhound sometimes, and Rachel never knows whether it’s worth lying to her or not.  
  
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” she parrots back, and takes a swig from the glass of whiskey Quinn has on the table. She’s pushing it with the familiarity given Quinn’s mood, but she’s more beat than a derby horse and all Quinn does is watch her mouth a little too closely anyway. Rachel likes these little moves against Quinn, they feel like testing the edge of a blade to see how much it’ll take to make you bleed.

She had thought three AM would have been too late for Quinn to be too sharp, but she thought wrong.

“Goldberg.”

She doesn’t say anything else, because Quinn knows Rachel hates it when she gets the last word, and sure enough Rachel quickly feels the need to fill in the blank.  
  
“Something is different with us, right?”

She hands the whiskey glass to Quinn, who watches Rachel over the rim as she takes a sip. She knows exactly what Rachel means, but watching her squirm is part of the fun. Quinn sets the glass down on the table with a firm clink and sits up a little straighter, leaning towards Rachel. “Is fluffing pretty boy not satisfying you lately, Rachel? You think flirting with your boss is the way to get your jollies?”

Rachel frowns, too tired to be teased when she knows they’re both hovering right on the edge of this weighty thing, just sitting like a pulse underneath their fingertips. “Does this ever get to you?” she asks. “I mean like, the ethics of everything we’re doing?” She doesn’t elaborate on what it is because she doesn’t have to, but she knows Quinn wants her to say it. “Don’t you ever go to sleep just feeling… bad?”

Quinn just searches Rachel with her eyes, making Rachel feel as uncomfortable as she did a month ago with Quinn’s fingers wrapped around her chin – trapped, much like prey. Then, in one smooth motion, Quinn gathers herself up and slides a leg across Rachel’s lap.

Above her, Quinn looks every inch the image her last name conjures. She looms, makeup a little smudged, and smiles down at Rachel trapped beneath her. “It’s not my job to feel bad, Goldie.”

There’s a long silence and Rachel wonders if anything is required of her at this point, whether the conversation is going to continue or if Quinn is waiting for her to make the next move. Rachel would, but she unfortunately doesn’t really know what the next move is.

“Quinn…”

Quinn’s mouth is ashy with cigarette smoke, but her tongue is wet and her fingers are hot where they cup Rachel’s jaw. Rachel leans up into her kiss, sliding her hands down Quinn’s arm to the elbow and despite the hour there’s nothing muted about the way their bodies start to rough together, and Quinn’s lips are nothing short of bruising.

Still, in all the heat and humid breaths, reddening teeth-marks and emboldened fingers, Quinn holds Rachel’s face in her hands as though she’s inclined to shatter. That’s what always surprises Rachel about Quinn – she’s never gentle in the ways you expect, and there’s no predicting when a part of her is going to turn soft. Quinn pulls back to look at Rachel for a moment, her chest painted with splotches of darkening pinks as she catches her breath. She’s beautiful and brighter than the sun in this moment, the kind of woman who men would spend their days dreaming about on a desert island. Rachel has never felt possessiveness about Quinn until right now, but she’s pretty sure seeing Chet’s hands on her is going to be a lot harder to watch after this.

It’s just uncomfortably desperate, gripping at your boss in the middle of the night, but Rachel can’t stop herself, and all she has to say is _please_ before Quinn’s mouth is sliding over hers again. Her hands find their way under Quinn’s skirt, where Quinn, it seems, has had a woman’s hands before but is certainly not anywhere that Rachel has ever been.

Quinn senses her hesitance and, with practised ease, takes Rachel’s wrist and guides it home with the kind of throaty noise that could satisfy even the most heterosexual woman’s fantasies for at least a month.

 

That’s the only time it happens, of course, until it isn’t.

 

Quinn has been making her life hell ever since Gary let slip that Rachel was the one who blabbed about her petty little war with Chet. Well… Quinn is always making her life hell, but this is a special kind of revenge that Quinn is relishing far too much.

After one particularly ruthless night shoot, Rachel’s got her hackles raised in Quinn’s office, bristling at the idea of this mess being entirely her fault. But then she’s up in Quinn’s face and realizes the feeling she’s feeling isn’t the usual knuckle-whitening anger, it’s something else.

It’s thick, heart-pounding lust that’s creating all the tension in the room, and her gaze is suddenly focused entirely on Quinn’s mouth; the line of her tongue sliding against the inside of her lip as she waits for Rachel to rebut her.

But Rachel doesn’t say anything; she just presses herself up against Quinn’s body and stares her down, a hand resting ominously on the wall next to them. She wants to dare Quinn into making a move again, and she knows it’s going to work.

Quinn’s eyes flick over her face and down to where their bodies barely touch, then Rachel feels teeth and a smile, the way a wolf is bound by nature to bite into prey. There’s nothing gentle about the way Quinn holds her this time, there’s no bird-like fragility, no careful brushing of her fingertips. It’s the way Rachel is used to being held by men – with a sense of ownership.

That’s the thing, though.

Quinn has always owned her ass, and Rachel knows it.

Gaining the upper hand with her is a largely futile endeavour, but when Rachel feels Quinn’s hips pick up a demanding grind against her own she gets an idea and promptly drops to her knees. Quinn has been wet for as long as they’ve been arguing, Rachel guesses, and she’s still not any good at this eating pussy thing, but Quinn has both her hands firmly dug into Rachel’s hair now so she assumes, as one might, that effort is as valuable as skill in this scenario. She lets Quinn tug hard at her hair, lets Quinn wrap a leg all the way around Rachel’s back so she has a heel digging into her ribs; saturates her fingers until she can feel Quinn shudder around them. Then she stops.

Quinn drops back against the wall with a thud. “What the hell, Rachel.”

Rachel gets to her feet and lets her damp fingers slide around the back of Quinn’s neck as she looks at her. “I’m not who you should be mad at and you know it. Get mad at Gary and all these shitty-ass man babies as much as you want but don’t take it out on me. I was trying to help you.”

For a moment, Quinn just looks at her, still as a frozen lake. Her nod in agreement is almost imperceptible, but Rachel reads like a neon sign.

 

The kinds of noises Quinn makes when she comes would net her thousands in blackmail if she ever recorded them, Rachel thinks. But then, she also remembers her own not long ago as Quinn’s fingers crooked inside her, her face pressed solidly into the couch, so that idea might have to be tabled.

She stands up again, wincing off her aching knees, and takes a steadying breath.

With the pad of her thumb Quinn reaches out and wipes the edges of Rachel’s mouth, her expression hard to read. But Rachel notices the way her weight is resting, pressed warmly into Rachel and away from the wall, and she feels something tug below her ribs.

Then Quinn smiles and something tugs much lower. She swipes her thumb across Rachel’s mouth again and leans in just a fraction of an inch. “I think I like it when you’re creating this kind of mess, Goldie.”

 

After that, it’s still money, dick, power (in that order), but Rachel does take the liberty of adding another pertinent “p” word to the line-up one night while Quinn is sleeping in her bed. She uses the expensive eyeliner that Quinn has reprimanded her for using several times to do it, and it takes Jay pointing it out on set the next day for Quinn to notice her new “ink”.

But when she barks Rachel’s name into the walkie-talkie five minutes later, Rachel goes ahead and infers the sentiment behind it in her reply.

“I love you too, Quinn.”


End file.
